As a child, Arthur always liked the rain. The rhythmic beat it struck up as it struck against the mud, the chilly wind that accompanied it, the fine mist it formed against the ground, it was almost perfect.

But at that moment, he couldn’t find much pleasure in it.

The sound of metal hitting metal was predominant as he clashed swords with his opponent. There was no doubt who his opponent was, clad in black with a hood and mask to hide his identity. “Hashyin.” Arthur spat, his sword at the ready. The man merely shifted as he slanted his sword towards Arthur menacingly. The Hashyin had been after Arthur’s family from the moment he had taken on the debt from the Grand Master. A small debt, but one he failed to repay.

Yelling, Arthur dashed towards the Hashyin, his blade swinging an arc as it slashed towards his opponent’s neck. The man lazily parried it, delivering a sharp kick to Arthur’s ribs along with it. Arthur staggered back, holding his chest. He surveyed the landscape searching for any tactical advantage. There was only grass and mud in these parts, the desolate Barren Plains. Wetted by water, it seemed almost futile to try and grab some up.

He blinked the water out of his eyes as he glared at his opponent. He was in no shape for a battle. The night at the watering hole seemed to have proved itself deadly now. The liquor dimmed his sight, making him continuously blink as he tried to stay awake. The Hashyin sauntered towards him with a leisurely gait. Arthur clutched his sword with two hands, spitting out blood.

They became a blur of movement as they clashed once more, sword against sword, a competition of skill. His opponent was skilled in the art of the blade, with lithe movements that seemed able to thread through his defense. But Arthur was not to be toyed with either. As the heat of battle gradually wore off the haze of the drink, he gradually regained control over his facilities.

Another parry. Another slash. Arthur deftly ducked as his fist found the Hashyin’s chest, wincing as the thick leather armor impeded his blow. They separated once more, slowly circling each other as they pondered their next move.

A blur of motion. The clear sound of a knife cutting through the air alerted Arthur as he twisted around, deflecting the projectile. Cursing at his carelessness, he quickly tried to correct himself, to regain his posture. But he was too late, for the cold steel was already heading for his side. He tried to move, to lessen the damage. Thanking his experiences in the Knightly Order, he managed to get through with a less than deep wound his side.

A sickening crunch followed as Arthur smashed his elbow against his foe’s head, sending him staggering. He did not press the advantage, however. He had to reassess his situation. Pushing away, he observed that the Hashyin did the same.

His expression grim as he explored through the thin linen, Arthur sighed in relief to feel that the cut didn’t reach the bone.

He considered retreating, but he knew better. If he were to do so, it was obvious who the Hashyin would go for.

Roslyn. His love, his life. Even if he had to die here, he had to put an end to the Hashyin. Perhaps this was the only assassin they sent.

The thought of her powered him as he dove forward. Arthur was a blur as he slashed and stabbed his way through the Hashyin’s overpowering defense. The clash of metal rang in his ears, his love’s name rang in his mind.

Roslyn. He remembered the first time he saw her. How she smiled at him as she served him a drink. A smile so sweet. One that he decided to protect forever.

A savage roar erupted from his lips as he continued his demonic barrage, the drink’s effect erased by the name that resounded through his mind like the song of a choir. He parried the Hashyin’s lethal strikes, planting a kick at his legs as he dropped his foe to his knees.

Roslyn. Her demure voice, her tender face, her azure eyes, her auburn locks, her soft skin. Everything about her. How she looked so unbelievably beautiful as she blushed after he proposed to her.

The weak linen could not have been there at all as the Hashyin’s sword easily jabbed through his thigh, spraying blood out. Arthur bit the inside of his cheeks, unwilling to let the pain take over. This was his chance. He raised his blade, to take the Hashyin’s head off. To save his love.

His innumerable drunken episodes. How he slapped her and hit her in fits of drunkenness. His eventual dismissal from the Knightly Order. How her shocked face had simply angered him as he struck at her. How even after all that, she stayed with him, when he begged her. Begged for her forgiveness.

The Hashyin’s fist jabbed forward, landing a strike at Arthur’s neck. He managed to draw back his neck just in time, but the blow struck, sending him into a coughing beat. Arthur beat a hasty retreat, sword arm drooping as he coughed.

The assassin got to his feet, shooting towards him with blinding speeds. Arthur managed to put his discomfort away as he clumsily parried the blade. He knew his death was inevitable. So he resolved himself to drag his opponent down with him to hell.

He roared with all his soul, his determination burning to the forefront. His blade sliced through the air, steel shining under the wisps of moonlight that filtered through the dark clouds. The raindrops that clattered against the steel seemed to strike up an ethereal symphony, a melody only he could hear.

And he slashed at his neck.

With a deft move, the Hashyin clipped the blade under the hilt and sent it flying through the air. He turned and elbowed Arthur beneath the diaphragm, knocking the air out of him.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the Hashyin expertly stabbed Arthur through the heart. The blade felt cold as it slid through him with a sickening squelch. Unwilling to give up as he bled out, Arthur’s hands were like claws as he sought for his foe’s neck. Only to manage to rip off his hood.

The happiness on her face when she was declared carrying a life. The tears of joy that gushed out of her eyes as she broke down, bawling in his arms. How she had declared so jovially to him, teary-eyed, ‘You’re a father, Arthur!’.

The tears she shed that day seemed so radically different from the tears she shed now. Surprise blinded Arthur as he realized that his life, Roslyn was standing before him, tear-stained, with a blade through his chest.

“Ros-Roslyn?” He managed to croak. Without a word, she kicked him as she slid her sword out of his chest. Collapsing, he gasped as blood streamed out of him. “Wh-why?”.

She was already leaving but stopped. With venomous spite, she uttered words that seemed to be like a whip to Arthur.

“You murdered my child.”

Unbidden, memories rushed into his head. A drunken stupor. A misplaced hit.

She walked away, letting him bleed out onto the mud.

And the rain fell on.